


if we could not touch, then I would draw strength from your beauty

by graves_expectations



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: (or at least i tried on that front), Alternate Universe - Pushing Daisies Fusion, Dark Comedy, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, matter of fact discussion of death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-02 12:11:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11509173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graves_expectations/pseuds/graves_expectations
Summary: Pushing DaisiesAU (no knowledge of the show needed!)Credence Barebone is a simple pie-maker with a complicated gift: he can bring the dead back to life with a single touch, but another touch means the revived person or animal will die again permanently, and if 60 seconds pass after a revival, then another life in the vicinity will be extinguished automatically in order to keep balance.ETA JANUARY 2018 - it's very, very unlikely that I'll be finishing this. I thought I should forewarn!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hannibani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibani/gifts).



> The title is from an amazing quote from the show <3 which can be found in full in one cute article [right here](https://www.bustle.com/p/14-pushing-daisies-quotes-that-are-perfect-to-write-in-a-valentines-day-card-28491). The format used in the first segment of this is very much like the show's unique narration and not something I can take credit for in the slightest either.
> 
> Thank you to [toffy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/toffy) for looking over some of this for me and providing lovely feedback and help, as always!

At this very moment, in a bedroom above a small, desolate church, young Credence was thirteen years, eighteen weeks, five days, twelve hours, and twenty minutes old. The pigeon that flew into his window was two years, twenty-seven weeks, three days, one hour, and eight minutes old… and not a minute older.

Credence flinched at the sound of the bird hitting glass, dropping the bible that had been clutched between his stinging palms. Tentatively, he crossed the room to the window where the pigeon lay motionless on the sill below, its head bent at an unnatural angle. He pushed up the window, filled with sadness for the bird’s plight and—for reasons he would never be able to recall later—touched a cautious fingertip to one grey wing.

In an instant, the formerly-dead pigeon was upright on its feet and then flying off into the night as if it had never crashed into his window in the first place. Credence had stared after the bird until it became only a speck in the distance and then looked down at his own hand in a mixture of wonder and fear.

This was the moment Credence realised he was not like the other children. Nor was he like anyone else for that matter. He soon learned that he could touch dead things (a cat that had been run over at the side of the road, a fly swatted angrily by his adoptive mother) and bring them back to life.

It was a gift from God, he presumed, or from the Devil perhaps, if Ma was right about his inherently wicked nature. He did not tell her about the ability, terrified that it would only make her more certain than ever that he was an aberration in the eyes of the Lord. The miraculous ability to restore life was not one anyone should possess, but possess it Credence did. He prayed each night to be able to understand the gift, the reason it was given to him, the terms of its use. No answer ever came.

Then, when Credence was seventeen years, two weeks, one day, six hours, and thirty-five minutes old, a blood vessel burst in his mother’s brain, killing her instantly one morning while she berated him in the back of their church.

He learned then that his was a gift that not only _gave_ , but one that also _took_.

Credence crouched down beside the body, reached out to check for a pulse and, at the touch of his hand to her wrist, Mary Lou Barebone had jolted back into the land of the living. She picked up where she had left off with her punishing words but, sixty seconds that no one in particular was counting later, a sudden loud thud from the next room stopped her tirade where briefly dying had not.

On going to investigate, they found their pastor (a thoroughly vile man with a penchant for looking down the dresses of the female members of their congregation) dead on the floor in the middle of the aisle between the church pews.

This was the first of two discoveries about his ‘gift’ that Credence would stumble upon that day. The death of the pastor and subsequent distasteful experiments with a few spiders told him that reviving a person or animal for more than a minute carried the hefty price that another lifeform in the vicinity had to die.

The second discovery was that another touch from anyone he brought back to life would result in the permanent death he had previously spared them. That very night, Ma had struck him across the face and promptly dropped dead.

Credence’s life changed drastically after that, and all for the better. He was taken in by two kindly sisters by the names of Tina and Queenie Goldstein, a rookie police officer and an aspiring actress, respectively. Tina had already tried to help Credence while his mother was alive and jumped at the opportunity to do so after her death.

The sisters shared an apartment above their family’s restaurant, _The Pie Hole,_ which Queenie ran half-heartedly while she waited for her big acting break. Tina and Queenie enjoyed the comfort of living together after their parents’ deaths some years ago and they were more than happy for Credence to stay in the recently-vacated apartment next to theirs. Queenie loved having him for a neighbour and particularly loved having someone she could teach to bake that wasn’t liable to set the building on fire like her sister was.

Credence found he had quite the talent for baking pies and he came to co-run _The Pie Hole_ with Queenie. They settled into a happy routine where Tina went out to the police station each day and tried to climb the ranks, Credence made his pies quietly out of sight in the kitchen, and Queenie got to serve customers and be front of house like she wanted in order to people-watch. It strengthened her repertoire of human emotion and motivation, she said, already too perceptive for her own good.

Afraid of the dire consequences of his gift, Credence stopped using it except to occasionally ripen dead fruit for everlasting flavour. He never told Tina or Queenie about his macabre ability, nor any other living soul.

Of course, someone was bound to discover his secret sooner or later.

We pick up in the middle of our story—the love story, that is—six years, forty-five weeks, two days, four hours, and fifty-nine minutes after the irreversible death of Credence’s cruel adoptive mother.

(Heretofore known as _now_.)

 

* * *

 

“Sugar, I think you should take this order to table two.”

Credence turns his head to give Queenie a surprised look over his shoulder, hands still kneading dough on the table in front of him. “Why me?” he asks. “You know you’re better with the customers.”

“Well,” Queenie says, taking Credence by the arm and leading him over to the sink where she encourages him to wash the flour off of his hands with flapping gestures of her own. “I think this particular customer would prefer service with a smile from _you_ rather than me.”

Credence stops rinsing his hands to gape at her. “He’s back again? This is the second time in two days.”

“And without Teenie this time too. I wonder where she is today...”

Feeling excitement bubbling up in his chest, Credence dries off his hands and then runs them anxiously through his hair. He just hopes it isn’t _too_ dusted with flour.

“You look great, honey,” Queenie says, holding out the order in question—a slice of key lime pie. “Don’t keep him waiting now.”

Credence takes the plate from her with a nervous smile. He presses a kiss to her cheek in thanks before walking quickly out of the kitchen into the main restaurant.

There, in amongst all the colour of _The Pie Hole_ with its rich brown wooden counter in the centre, the red cherry-shaped light fittings dropping from stalks, and the green and white checked tablecloths and floor tiles, sits Credence’s monochrome dream.

Detective “call me Percival” Graves is dressed in his typical work outfit of a dark suit and white shirt as he reclines a bit in his seat at his preferred table in the middle of the restaurant. It’s the one that has the best view into the kitchen where Credence can normally be found. Credence likes to think that’s why he chooses it every time.

Percival sits up straight on seeing Credence coming towards him with his pie, eyes sparkling and lips curving. He always smiles with his mouth closed. Credence always longs to see his teeth, even if they blind him like Queenie’s sometimes do.

“Hi,” Credence says when he gets to the table, hating the way it comes out more breathless and higher-pitched than he intended.

“Hi,” Percival replies, his voice low and _perfect_ and the one Credence has heard in many, many nice dreams that he should not be remembering at all right now. Percival points at the plate in Credence’s hand. “Is that for me?”

Credence nods, feeling his cheeks start to burn already.

The slice of pie is a bigger helping than he or Queenie would normally cut for anyone else and it’s the one Credence already knows to be Percival’s favourite. He likes key lime pie best, followed by lemon meringue, followed by cherry. He isn’t over-keen on chocolate and he has a mild allergy to strawberries, which Credence had very nearly struck off the menu after learning that.

(Both Queenie _and_ Tina had to talk him down, insisting he couldn’t abolish one of the most popular pie flavours they offered just because strawberries gave his crush a tingly feeling in the mouth. Credence, wishing to give Percival a tingly feeling in the mouth himself, had reluctantly acquiesced.)

Willing his hands to remain steady, Credence sets the plate down in front of Percival. “I hope you like it,” he says.

“I’m sure I will.” Percival picks up his fork but doesn’t dig in straight away, looking up at Credence with a frown. “Although… how did you know what I was going to order today?”

Credence’s face must be as red as the lampshade above them. He can just _hear_ Queenie snickering from where she’s watching behind the counter. Meddlesome witch, he thinks uncharitably.

“Lucky guess.”

“Or you just know me too well,” Percival says, smiling warmly, his brown eyes fixed on Credence’s. It’s far too easy to get caught up in them.

With his palms growing clammy at his sides, Credence squeaks out, “it’s on the house!” and all but runs back into the kitchen. He can’t watch the man eat his pie—he found that out the _hard_ way when he made the mistake of hanging around once to see Percival’s reaction the first time he served him lemon meringue pie.

No man should suck a fork like that or make _noises_ like that in public. _Especially_ if he’s then going to be outrageously oblivious to the effect that it has on the poor pie-maker watching.

As Credence passes Queenie on his determined way back to his safe haven, her giggles follow him through the double doors. The sound doesn’t make him smile in return like it usually would.

The facts are these: Percival Graves is the most handsome man to ever grace this establishment with his presence, he’s a wonderfully gentle, intelligent, thoughtful person, and Credence has no clue at all where he stands with him.

He’s been coming to _The Pie Hole_ for months now since he transferred to Tina’s precinct and she dragged him through the door at lunchtime on his first day while he grimaced and said “I don’t even really like pie”.

That certainly changed after he tried Tina’s favourite banana cream pie (now his fourth favourite) at her insistence. He had then ordered his own slice and asked to see the pie-maker to compliment him on his work. Or rather, he had probably _meant_ to compliment Credence solely on his work, but instead ended up complimenting him on something else when Queenie forced him to come out and speak with the happy customer.

Credence can still hear the proclamation even now. Percival’s first words to him were: “Jesus, you’re as edible as this damn pie.”

He’s never said anything at all like it since, never once been so forward with Credence again.

Credence wonders if his own _(stupid)_ rabbit-in-the-headlights reaction had put him off or whether Percival really had just blurted that out without thinking and resolved not to do it again in future. He’s unfailingly polite whenever he visits the restaurant, always full of enthusiastic praise when it comes to Credence’s baking, and he’s a bit on the intense side when it comes to eye contact perhaps, but he doesn’t flirt or tease or even just _suggest_ like Credence desperately wants him to.

He can’t do it himself. He hasn’t got the first idea how he would get the message across to Percival that he _like-likes_ him and wants to hold his hand and kiss his mouth and stroke his hair and touch every inch of his body (even his feet, and Credence _hates_ feet).

The best he can do is give him pie on the house—which only doesn’t bankrupt him because Percival leaves tips larger than the price of a whole pie—and channel all his love and devotion into the making of said pies.

One day, he thinks as he sprinkles flour and rolls out more dough and chops fruits, eyeing Percival through the porthole windows in the doors that separate the kitchen from the main restaurant. _One day._

 

* * *

 

Percival Graves becomes the sole keeper of Credence’s secret on a remarkably ordinary Friday.

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and Credence is just taking the trash out into the alleyway beside _The Pie Hole_ when a man falls from the sky.

Unfortunately, the man hits one of the dumpsters with a sickening crunch, clearly dead on impact… and then bounces off the dumpster and back into Credence, hand brushing his face. The touch revives him immediately and, without missing a beat, the man makes to run off out of the alleyway.

It’s the stuff of Credence’s nightmares.

In a blind panic, Credence chases after him and gets close enough to touch the back of the man’s neck. The second he does, the man falls to the floor. Dead forever this time.

Credence shudders uncontrollably at what he’s just had to do, taking shallow, shaky breaths when nausea rises from the pit of his stomach up to his throat. That’s when he hears the one voice he most wants to hear in any other situation and _least_ wants to hear in this one:

“Credence?”

Suddenly, Credence’s spine refuses to bend. He forces his neck to angle the right way and looks up towards the sound to see Percival staring at him from high up on the roof of the building to his left. He looks as stunned as Credence feels.

Percival’s Detective shield glints on his belt in the sunlight and it only takes Credence a few seconds to deduce that the dead man must have been a suspect he was chasing. It only takes a few seconds more to realise that the body at his feet could easily have been _Percival’s_ and then he’s staggering away from that body to be violently sick into one of the bins.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you,” Credence murmurs, extricating his hands from within the folds of Percival’s jacket where it’s been generously draped around his shoulders to accept the mug of steaming tea that Percival is holding out to him.

He feels foolish—sat here in a café in the best possible version of a shock blanket with Percival buying him sweet tea and watching him avidly like he might faint at any moment. He’s got his ‘concerned’ face on, the angle of his mouth and eyebrows plainly expressing his consternation. It all seems unnecessary, but then Credence remembers his chattering teeth and his trembling fingers and his weak legs and he has to admit that maybe it’s the opposite.

It’s nice that he _is_ concerned, really, and getting to wear Percival’s jacket is definitely nice too. He spent the whole time Percival was queuing to get his tea with his nose pressed into the fabric so he could inhale the comforting scent that clung to it.

The café is crowded enough that they shouldn’t be overheard while they talk, but Percival had glowered at a lingering teenage couple when they came in to garner them this particular small booth in the corner out of earshot anyway.

“I gave an anonymous tip,” Percival tells him, taking his seat again. “I- um... I hadn’t called for backup like I should have done, luckily. Someone will come to get the body and no one but me will know about your involvement now. So you don’t need to worry.”

“Good,” Credence says. He lifts his cup to his mouth. Barely feels the tea scald down his throat. Coughs. “That’s good.”

Percival smiles and takes the mug from him, setting it down on the table beside Credence’s other hand. “Maybe give that a minute,” he says, voice as gentle as his fingers that he lays over the top of Credence’s.

The touch—something that Credence is unused to even as a rule with the _living_ —startles him. He would have sent his cup flying if not for Percival’s hand pressing down on his firmly. The unyielding weight of it grounds him and Credence shuts his eyes to savour the feeling.

Admittedly, this is _not_ the context he wanted for the first touch he was to receive from Percival Graves, but that’s not to say it’s unwelcome. At least Percival is willing to touch him, now he’s found out the truth.

“You’re okay,” Percival says. “It’s all okay, Credence. Just tell me what you want to, and leave out what you don’t.”

And so Credence tells him everything. The pigeon and the flies, the rabbit and the spiders and the cat he knew he couldn’t keep but wanted to. He tells him about his adoptive mother and the pastor. That homeless man he checked on once. All the fruit.

He tells him about his life in the church. About coming to stay with Tina and Queenie, about finding a home at last, friends, a vocation, a place in the world.

The only thing Credence leaves out is the part about being in love with him.

 

* * *

 

Things get back to a relative normality after that, strangely enough. Percival doesn’t breathe a word about his ‘gift’ to anyone, nor does he speak about it with Credence. The only change is a pleasing one: he starts to visit _The Pie Hole_ every day.

Sometimes he comes in with Tina, sometimes by himself when Tina is busy or wanting to spend her lunch break somewhere else (likely with that floppy-haired animal-expert English guy she met on a case and became so fond of).

Sometimes Percival sits at his usual table and has a slice of pie that Credence still gives him ‘on the house’ in their laughable running gag. Sometimes he just orders a coffee and then perches on one of the stools at the counter, chatting to Queenie while he eats things that are _not_ pie that he’s brought with him, and making Credence blush when he catches Percival looking at him through the windows into the kitchen.

It gets to the point where Percival comes in to see him so often that Credence just opens the doors to his domain with a sigh and Percival gets his own chair in the corner of the kitchen where he can watch Credence baking and talk to him about whatever he fancies. Weather, the news, politics, a film he caught the second half of the other night when he got home late, anecdotes from the precinct… anything but death.

Then, one Wednesday lunchtime, he _does_ want to talk death.

“Excuse the pun,” he says, shifting awkwardly on his chair while Credence whisks egg yolks, “but I’m at a dead end with this case of mine. I hate to ask, but it’s dragging on now and I was wondering if you might be able to help.”

“Help how?” Credence asks. He puts his mixing bowl down to give Percival his full attention.

Percival waggles his fingers in the air. The gesture looks almost comical, considering how serious he usually is. “With your gift, if you’d be comfortable doing it. I just need one minute to speak with this vic. It’s a hit and run case, so he might have seen his killer.”

“Oh, you want me to… oh.”

It’s the first time Credence has ever even _thought_ of using his ability in that way. It fills him with dread, but he doesn’t want to admit that to Percival. It’s perhaps the most noble, _useful_ application of his strange talent. He should feel glad to do it, not terrified.

“We’ll be careful,” Percival says. He pulls his left shirt cuff back to expose his watch, tapping the face. “You touch the guy, we’ll ask a couple of questions while I count the minute with this, and then you touch him again and he goes back to resting in peace.”

Credence knows the dread he feels is just a lingering hang-up from hiding his ability from everyone in his life. It’s been nice, actually, having someone know this side of him. He loves and trusts Tina and Queenie without reservation and knows they love him the same, but there’s always been a part of him that felt they would cast him out if they knew his secret. That part shrinks a little every day that Percival arrives at _The Pie Hole_ and heads straight into the kitchen with a smile, talking to him like a friend, as if Credence were the normal person he so badly wants to be.

That unconditional acceptance, that burgeoning confidence… they’re things Percival has given him and helped cultivate in him. Denying him help now would be a poor way to pay him back for those priceless gifts.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

“I’ll be right there with you,” Percival says at once. “I won’t leave you on your own in this, Credence, not for one second.”

Credence attempts a smile for him. “I appreciate that,” he says, dismayed when it comes out as a whisper.

Percival does something then that he hasn’t since that fateful day when Credence sat in the café with him, warmed by his jacket and his presence. He gets up, comes to Credence’s side, and then he reaches out and covers Credence’s hand with his own.

Credence looks down at their hands, heart racing at the sensation of skin on skin and at Percival’s sheer proximity to him. Percival radiates warmth in the tiny space left between their bodies and it feels almost surreal to be so near to him at last.

It feels like he might just be about to get everything he wants.

Credence turns his head to look at Percival and finds an unreadable expression on his too-close face. His eyebrows are drawn together like he’s confused, but his mouth looks ready to smile.

Feeling emboldened, needing to push things one way or the other, Credence turns his hand over beneath Percival’s and laces their fingers together.

Percival sucks in a sharp breath. “Credence,” he says quietly, “I—”

The doors to the kitchen crash open then and Queenie bursts through them. Percival hurriedly withdraws his hand and steps back. Credence’s hand turns cold at once.

“That _Grindelwald!_ ” she exclaims, as close to angry as she ever gets. “I swear, if he comes back again I’m going to _ban_ him, and I’ve never banned anybody from this restaurant!”

She rants on for a few minutes about the bigotry of their most-hated customer and Credence forcibly reminds himself of all she’s done for him over the years while he looks at Percival from beneath his lashes and wishes she hadn’t interrupted.

 

* * *

 

The morgue is somehow not as unpleasant as Credence was expecting. It’s cold and clinical, sure, but it doesn’t frighten him the way he thought it would. It just makes him sad to think _this is it_ , this is where bodies end up. Like the man who fell onto the dumpster all those weeks ago.

An ammonia-like scent hangs in the air of the autopsy room, lightly stinging Credence’s eyes. Percival seems used to it.

“Are you all right?” he asks, hand ready on the correct stainless steel drawer. “If you aren’t, just say. You don’t have to do this.”

Credence inhales deeply through his mouth and decides it might be an idea to perhaps take all further breaths through his mouth as well. “I’m fine. I want to help.”

He looks down at the scuffed, off-white toes of his converse sneakers and regrets not changing into something more formal after work. Their casualness seems inappropriate for the setting, more so when Percival is suited and booted like usual.

He doubts the dead man will care about his shoes though, in the end.

Percival pulls the drawer open and steps back from it to give Credence space, raising his left arm to be able to look at his watch. “Take your time,” he says. “I’m ready when you are.”

The murder victim, Eric Boyce, was forty-nine years, seven weeks, three days, eight hours, and twelve minutes old at the time of his death. According to Percival, he ran a successful funeral home (aren’t all funeral homes successful? They can never be short of clients, Credence thinks) with his business partner, one Michael Williams. Apparently, Mr. Boyce was hit by a car not long after he left work on the same day he was discovered stealing jewellery from one of the bodies in the funeral home.

The elderly widower who did the discovering had a good alibi: he was reporting Mr. Boyce to the police (across town and in person, for he was a firm believer in expressing one’s outrage face-to-face). The business partner—who had since claimed no knowledge of the plundering of their deceased clients’ possessions—had a far more tenuous alibi: he was home tending to his sick mother.

“A right cantankerous old sow,” Percival had said to Credence on the car ride over to the morgue. “She’d say anything to save her precious son though. I’m _sure_ Williams was in on the corpse-robbing and he didn’t want Boyce to drag him down too after he got found out.”

Hopefully, the dead man himself will be able to prove or disprove Percival’s theory. Credence slowly pulls the sheet back from his face, careful not to touch Mr. Boyce when he folds it down to the level of his armpits. He looks at the portly man with as much detachment as he can, taking in his round face, his greying moustache and sideburns, the scar over his left eyebrow.

“Okay,” Credence says decisively. “Start timing.”

Percival does, and the sound of ticking fills the otherwise silent room.

Credence touches his fingertip to one cold, bristly cheek. He feels a zip of static electricity pass between them and the formerly-dead man sits bolt upright with a gasp. The sheet Credence had just folded down now falls further with gravity to expose a flabby chest covered in sparse silver hair. Mr. Boyce’s eyes snap open and his chalk white face suddenly blooms with colour.

“We don’t have much time,” Credence says before Boyce can begin to freak out. “I’m Credence, this is Percival, and we want to you ask a few questions, if that’s okay?”

“Is this about the jewellery?” Boyce asks, voice testy. “Because you can go bother Michael about that, okay? It was his idea. I’m sorry if I took your grandma’s favourite locket or whatever, but I’ve already been hit by a car today and there’s not a lot else you can do to me.”

Credence glances at Percival at that. He was expecting a triumphant look over being right about Michael Williams and his part in the stealing, but if Boyce had gained colour in his cheeks, Percival seems to have lost most of his. He was already looking sallow under the harsh strip lighting above.

It must be unnerving, Credence thinks, for him to see this. It’s one thing to know what Credence does and to have seen it briefly from a distance. It’s quite another to see it up close like this.

Unnerved or not, he’s still dutifully looking at his watch.

“Who was the driver?” Credence asks, deciding it’s probably sensible if he continues with the questioning and Percival continues to keep an eye on the time.

“That asshole Michael, of course! Son of a bitch didn’t want me to give away that he was as neck-deep in loot as I was!”

There it is. When Credence looks at Percival this time, he’s still pale, but he’s grinning a little. His expression sobers and he nods at his watch. “Thirty seconds left, Credence.”

That’s more time than he thought they would have. They’ve got their confirmation about the business partner being the murderer, at least. It’s all gone quite smoothly, much to Credence’s surprise.

“Do you… have any last words, Mister Boyce?” he asks. “Do you regret the stealing and maybe want to repent?”

Boyce makes a rude ‘pfft’ noise and rolls his eyes. “My only regret is that I got caught. And that I never _did_ shift enough weight to be able to move fast enough to avoid speeding cars.”

Frowning, Credence leans forward and taps him in the centre of the forehead. Boyce falls back down onto the drawer with a thud.

“Well,” Percival says. He stops his watch and lowers his arm.

“Yes,” Credence agrees.

 

* * *

 

Credence is scrolling endlessly through Netflix when his intercom buzzer goes off. It’s been about an hour since Percival dropped him home after their furtive morgue visit and the clock in the corner of Credence’s laptop screen tells him it’s 21:32, which is an odd time for a visitor.

When he goes to the hallway and presses the button for his mysterious visitor to talk, he’s taken aback to hear Percival’s voice crackling through the speaker.

“It’s Percival again. I’m sorry it’s late, I just really wanted to give you something to say thanks for tonight.”

Credence’s heart falters in his ensuing panic. He’s in pyjamas right now—a joke gift from Queenie for his last birthday—and they have half-eaten pies printed all over them in a repeating pattern. Worse than that is the joke printed on both sides of the button-up top:

“What’s the best thing to put into a pie?” asks the front.

“Your teeth!” answers the back.

It is, perhaps, the worst, least sexy outfit he could be wearing for this unexpected visit. Not that any of his outfits _are_ particularly sexy.

“Um, just a second!”

He presses the button to allow Percival entry into the building and then runs back into his bedroom to change. Unfortunately, he trips over his _own damn feet_ in his haste and before he can get back up, there’s a brisk knocking at the front door.

Percival moves fast.

“Just a second!”

“I won’t stay long!” Percival calls back. “Don’t tidy anything up on my account.”

Credence freezes. He was so preoccupied with fixing his appearance that he plain forgot about the state of his apartment. If Percival comes in, he’ll see Credence’s growing piles of neglected problems like the bowls and plates and cutlery needing to be washed up in the kitchen and the unironed clothes that he’s poorly folded and left on the sofa in the living area.

When he first came to live here, Credence kept the place pristine. Tina and Queenie were always shocked to see the apartment so immaculate and impersonal while theirs was chaotic but cosy. Over time though, his Ma’s voice in the back of his head (usually saying “cleanliness is next to Godliness”) faded and he stopped fearing punishment for sloth. He then started to derive a bizarre sort of pleasure from deferring his chores in favour of reading or listening to music or binging on movies and television shows he’d never been allowed to watch before. He had a _lot_ to catch up on.

“Credence?”

In the end, Credence doesn’t have time to fix himself _or_ his place and he winds up answering the door in his ridiculous pie-print pyjamas and trying to conceal the inside of his apartment by keeping the door half-closed and standing in the gap.

“Hey,” he says, heart pounding, already out of breath. This just shows how unfit he is, probably.

Percival stands in the doorway with a bouquet of flowers in one hand, still dressed in his suit and looking as devastatingly handsome and put-together as ever. He gives Credence a once over that has him blushing to the roots of his hair. “Cute pyjamas,” he says with a smirk.

Credence wants to _die_ , and permanently at that. No coming back, he thinks, he doesn’t ever want to have to relive this moment. “Thank you,” he mumbles.

“What’s the answer?”

“What?”

Percival points at his chest. “The best thing to put into a pie.”

Maybe Credence _will_ die. Maybe he’ll end up in one of those drawers in the morgue and the cause of death on his certificate will just read ‘embarrassment’. “Oh, um,” he says, “I’ll just…”

He turns around and Percival laughs like the joke is the best one he’s ever been told. When he turns back to face him, Percival stops laughing, but a smile remains and Credence can’t help returning it, despite how silly he feels.

Percival thrusts the bouquet out towards him. The flowers in it are a colourful selection: orange gerbera daisies, red germini, yellow sunflowers, and purple agapanthus.

“I don’t know why I bought flowers,” Percival says, lifting his free hand to rub the back of his neck. “Do you like flowers? Actually, I do know why: it’s because the florist was the only place open at this hour. What I really don’t know is why I live two blocks from a twenty-four hour florist, but it comes in handy sometimes.”

He’s talking faster than Credence has ever heard him talk before. Like he’s _nervous_. The thought makes Credence’s mouth go dry. “Do you… often need flowers at half past nine at night?”

Percival grimaces. “No. No, I’ve never even been in there before tonight, in fact.”

“Right.”

They look at each other awkwardly for a few seconds. Percival shakes the bouquet in his hand slightly and stretches it out further towards Credence.

“Oh!” Credence says, taking the gift. The cellophane wrapping crinkles during the exchange. “Thank you. I do like flowers, by the way. I really like them.”

 _I really like them?_ Credence despairs over himself internally. He tries again: “I mean… these are beautiful. A great choice.”

It’s not a lot better, but Percival smiles at the compliment, eyes cast shyly down towards his shoes. He’s so lovely in that moment that Credence asks without thinking, “Do you want to come in?”

Percival can see the mess in his apartment, he tells himself, if it means he’ll stay for longer.

Percival’s smile turns rueful and he meets Credence’s gaze again. “I’d better get home,” he says. “I shouldn’t have disturbed you at this time. I just… I wanted to thank you, but I also wanted to check you were okay. I feel bad for pressuring you into helping with my case.”

Credence clutches the flowers to his chest, right over where a delicious warmth is spreading, immeasurably pleased to know that Percival was _worried_ about him.

“I’m okay, honestly. Don’t feel bad; I _wanted_ to help, like I said. I’d do it again. It’s the best use for what I can do and I want to be useful to you.”

Percival frowns a little at that, which Credence finds confusing. He thought Percival would welcome the offer of future assistance.

Perhaps he’s overstepped and Percival thinks Credence is casting aspersions on his skills as a Detective. The idea makes his stomach drop and he’s just about to start back-pedalling when Percival says, “You don’t have to be _useful_ , Credence, not to me. You’re my friend and the last thing I want is to end up using you. I hate that I’ve dragged you into my world tonight. Someone as good and pure as you doesn’t belong in a morgue.”

Credence doesn’t know how to respond to that.

He’s never felt especially _good_ or _pure_ in his life. Mary Lou Barebone made sure of that. He was wicked, she told him. Sinful, hellbound, and rotten to the core. It’s somewhat overwhelming now to have the best man he knows saying the exact opposite.

Credence suddenly wants nothing more than to thank him in some way. He wants to ask Percival to come in again and he wants the underlying meaning to be _obvious_ as he does. The only thing he has to offer is himself and he would, if he thought for one second that Percival might accept him.

He won’t. Whether from lack of desire or innate morals, Credence just knows he would never do it.

“I want to be in your world though,” he says eventually, putting the weight of his sincerity behind it. “If I can help you get justice for someone, I want to do it.”

Percival takes a step forward and his fingers reach out to gently sweep a lock of Credence’s hair around his ear, tucking it out of the way. Credence unfortunately flinches at the intimate touch and Percival pulls his hand back at once.

“You’re incredible,” Percival says, the words soft and awed.

 _Come in,_ Credence thinks desperately, as if the force of his thoughts could make them audible to Percival somehow. _Stay with me tonight._

Percival isn’t a mind-reader though. He smiles again and says, “Goodnight, Credence.”

Careful not to crush his flowers between them, Credence leans forward, shuts his eyes, and presses a quick kiss to Percival’s cheek. The stubble there is just slightly rough against his lips. Credence can hear his blood surging in his ears when he rocks back on his heels, anxiously watching Percival’s face for his reaction.

His mouth is parted in surprise. He doesn’t look upset or angry, thankfully. His mouth closes and spreads into a smile and he lifts his hand to touch the spot Credence had just kissed.

“Goodnight, Percival.”

Percival leaves then with a nod and Credence shuts his door after he goes into the stairwell and out of sight. When he’s got the door closed, he ends up having to lean against the solid wood of it, breathing heavily and cursing missed opportunities.

 

* * *

 

Credence does everything he can to prolong the life of the flowers Percival brought him.

He recuts the stems at an angle religiously every day. He changes the water daily too, adds plant food, and gets rid of any leaves at the bottom of the vase to stop bacteria growing. He keeps the flowers out of direct sunlight on the counter in his kitchen where it tends to be cooler.

Despite his best efforts, they still wilt within a fortnight.

When the last sunflower dies, Credence goes downstairs to the restaurant and stocks up his fruit bowl when he returns to his apartment.

With his sacrifice ready, he touches the head of every decaying, drooping flower in the vase. He beams when the stems turn rigid and stand up straight again. Before his eyes, the faded blooms regain their vibrant colours. Beneath his fingertip, the curling petals stretch out and lose their dryness, becoming velvet soft once more.

They will stay beautiful like this for an eternity now, provided Credence never touches them again.

He sits on a stool at the kitchen counter after that, looking between the rejuvenated flowers and the digital clock on his oven.

He waits.

When 10:34 becomes 10:35, the strawberries in his fruit bowl all shrivel and turn brown.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm dedicating this (and the whole fic :D) to the amazing [monohani](http://monohani.tumblr.com/) (who came up with the stupidly cute bee collar pins for Percival!) because I'm a sap who wants to GIVE YOU THINGS and this is my offering right here. You're an incredible artist and a wonderful person <3
> 
> Everyone, do go check out their fantastic [art blog](http://monobani.tumblr.com/)!

The coroner—a rather sour-faced man by the name of Abernathy—doesn’t like him.

As Credence sits waiting for Percival on one of the hard-backed chairs by the vending machine in the hallway of the city morgue, Abernathy seems to make an unusually high number of trips from his office to said vending machine and back in order to sneer at him each time he passes.

In the space of twenty-nine minutes, no man should require three candy bars, two bags of chips, and two bottles of soda. Unless he has a tapeworm.

Eventually, Credence just ducks his head down, hunches low in his seat, slots his earbuds in to block out the world, and tries to ignore the glares.

His stomach twists itself into knots over the animosity though. If Abernathy suspects he isn’t the ‘consultant’ Percival has been trying to pass him off as whenever they come here together, then he might tell someone and Percival might get into trouble over the whole affair. Sure, no one will guess that Credence accompanies him in order to wake the dead for a little chat, but Credence the pie-maker has no good reason for being in the morgue. Drawing attention to their arrangement is the last thing they want to do.

A small part of Credence (one that sounds a lot like his long-dead adoptive mother) tells him the coroner dislikes him just because he’s inherently unlikable. A larger, much more rational and kindly part of him (one that sounds a lot like Tina, Queenie, or Percival, depending on the day and the issue) reassures him that it’s all born of jealousy.

He’s seen Abernathy’s eyes greedily track over Percival’s shoulders, down the line of his back and further down still. He’s witnessed him lighting up with an ever-optimistic spark of interest every time Percival visits the morgue, only for that spark to be doused in disappointment when Percival never gives him a second glance.

It’s easy to recognise hopeless pining when you’re full to the brim with it yourself. Although… Credence’s pining looks less and less hopeless with every passing day, and that’s where the jealousy comes in.

Where Percival is civil to the point of curtness with Abernathy, who seems to irritate him with his sycophantic ways, he’s warm to the point of intimacy with Credence. There’s a softness to his tone that’s only present when he speaks to Credence and the absence of it is jarringly obvious when he addresses Abernathy afterwards.

Credence knows the keen-eyed coroner hasn’t missed the way Percival is always quick to put a hand on his lower back to guide him into the autopsy room either. Percival means that proprietary touch as a comfort, probably, but Credence can’t help but take it as an indicator of something _more_.

Even now, his pulse is elevated just thinking about it, heart thudding fast with the anticipation of Percival’s arrival. He’s late, but Credence doesn’t care. It’s just given him more time to dwell, teenager-like, on how he can hardly wait to see Percival smile at him in greeting, to hear his low voice, to feel the solidity of his palm against his spine yet again.

Yes, he can understand why Abernathy dislikes him, all right. He might not be getting absolutely everything he wants from Percival Graves, but he’s getting more than Abernathy ever will.

The double doors in the hallway open and Credence lifts his head to see the man in question striding through, leaving the doors swinging back and forth on their hinges in his wake. As he walks, his long black overcoat billows out behind him like a cape.

For a man who can be so understated with his mannerisms, Percival certainly enjoys a good number of dramatic flairs.

Credence sits up straight in a hurry on seeing him. The heel of his hand traps the cable of his earphones as he does and the buds are yanked unceremoniously out of his ears. Tinny music continues to spill forth from them, but Credence hardly notices, focus stolen entirely by the sight of Percival approaching him.

His eyebrows are furrowed with what looks like annoyance or worry. Both, Credence decides, having become a master at reading just about every one of Percival’s expressions and nonverbal cues since they met.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Percival says on reaching him. “My meeting with the Captain ran long and I really did mean to get here… damn it, twenty minutes ago now. Were you on time?”

Credence shrugs. He smiles at Percival in the hopes of getting a smile in return to cherish, but Percival just continues to look troubled.

“I was early,” Credence admits, “but I had a distraction and the time passed quickly, don’t worry.”

He lifts his phone. Gives it a small shake. Feels his smile become more awkward.

Percival smiles back at him like he wanted though and Credence relaxes, slipping into his typical, paradoxical mix of ease and _unease_ in Percival’s presence. He’s Credence’s favourite person to be around, but _by God,_ does the man ever make him nervous.

His nerves only worsen when Percival walks over and sits down next to him. A thigh presses warmly against his and then deft fingers take up one of the earphones from where they dangle, forgotten, over Credence’s knee.

“May I?” he asks, lifting the pilfered bud towards his left ear.

Credence nods, too surprised to do anything else, and Percival gestures for him to put the other one in his own ear, which he dutifully does.

“Cheery words,” Percival remarks after listening in silence for about thirty seconds. He winks to show he doesn’t mean it badly. “But I like the melody.”

Credence blushes, both at the wink and at realising (not for the first time) that some of the music he likes tends to be the opposite of _cheery_. But then, artists so rarely sing about happy things. Pain is far more relatable, Credence supposes.

The cable of Credence’s earphones tugs between them when Percival turns to look ahead at the wall opposite them. He just sits for a moment like that: hands clasped together between his knees, listening to Credence’s music with him. His face is soft and open, jaw relaxed and eyes half-lidded. He doesn’t move or say anything and Credence watches him, mesmerised.

The thought of just how much he _loves_ Percival spins cartwheels through his mind. Every beat of his heart hurts, as if the muscle were bruised, dented in some way by a collision that just keeps happening, over and over.

Credence is sure he’ll never love like this again.

When the track ends, Percival plucks the earphone free and and hands it back to Credence, who takes it numbly. He removes his own earbud and pulls the jack out of his phone to stop it playing the next song.

“Do you listen to music like that because you feel the same way?” Percival asks him, mouth downturned. “I hate to think of you ever feeling that sad.”

Credence’s aching heart flutters weakly at his concern and he shakes his head. “No, I just… I just like the music. The melody, like you said.”

The truth is that he  _used_ to feel sad, and often. When he first got to listen to music that _he_ wanted to listen to, music that wasn't hymns in a church, he found that upbeat pop left him feeling hollow. Moody acoustic guitar and lamenting piano tunes with depressing lyrics over the top seemed to be the only songs that would resonate with him. That's all changed over the happy years he's spent with the Goldsteins and since he met Percival especially. He's got a good mix of both upbeat and depressing songs in his library now. If anything, Credence was lucky Percival heard something profound instead of catching one of his more superficial guilty pleasure songs that he dances to as he does his housework, or one of the highly embarrassing songs about unrequited love that another skip on shuffle might have brought up.

Percival seems satisfied by his answer, lips curving the right way again. “That’s all right then,” he says and then he inclines his head in the direction of Abernathy’s office before getting to his feet. “I don’t think I can put off business to enjoy your company any longer than I already have, seeing as I’m late. Shall we?”

As soon as Credence stands up, nodding his acquiescence, Percival’s hand settles itself in the middle of his back to lead him down the corridor. It causes another fluttery feeling, this time in the pit of his stomach.

Abernathy beams on seeing Percival enter his office, sitting up in his chair just like Credence had in the hallway when he came in. It’s strange, to see someone else behaving exactly as he does. He wonders if his affection for Percival is as pathetically evident as Abernathy’s always is.

“Detective Graves!” Abernathy says. “How lovely to see you again.”

The small office is abruptly filled with rustling as Abernathy sweeps empty wrappers and packets off his desk and into the bin at the side of it. It looks like he really _did_ consume everything Credence saw him purchase from the vending machine. Perhaps he eats his feelings.

“Thank you,” Percival says, sounding exceedingly casual when contrasted with Abernathy’s enthusiasm. “All right if we…?” He jerks a thumb at the door towards the adjoining room where the bodies are kept.

“Oh, of _course,”_ Abernathy says. “Yes, please, take your time. Do you need anything, Detective? Can I assist you in any way?”

“No, no,” Percival says, giving a brief wave of one hand. The poor coroner looks crestfallen at the dismissal, not realising that Percival’s quick refusal of help is less to do with him than it is a strict need for secrecy in what he and Credence are here to do.

“Are you sure?” Abernathy asks. His chair creaks as he leans forward in it hopefully.

Percival gives a slight cough that Credence recognises as awkwardness. “I’m sure. Credence and I have it covered. Right, Credence?”

And there it is. That softening of Percival’s tone as he said his name, _twice_. No one Credence has ever met has given it an intonation that appeals to him more.

Tongue-tied, Credence just nods. Abernathy gives him a look so dirty that if Credence’s first plan on getting home from the morgue _wasn’t_ to shower immediately, then it sure would be after that. He averts his eyes and stares down at the worn toes of his shoes instead.

“No interruptions,” Percival says, remembering at the last moment to add on, “please.”

“Of course not, Detective Graves.”

Percival leads Credence through into the autopsy room like he usually does, shutting the door to Abernathy’s office behind them. He gives a sigh of relief that Credence doesn’t comment on before he checks that the blinds on the windows into the room are fully shut, then turns back to Credence with a smile.

“All alone,” he says.

Credence tries not to blush again. They’re in a morgue, for God’s sake, has he no shame?

“Who are we here for this time?” he asks, ignoring the traitorous heat suffusing his face.

There’s a body already laid out on one of the stainless steel tables, covered over with a white sheet that looks almost blue in the clinical lighting of the autopsy room.

Percival points at it. “This one’s high profile. You know the news story about the woman who got suffocated in her apartment recently?”

Credence does indeed know. The murder of the travel boutique employee has been the main story featured on every news program for the past week.

“This is Felicity Dartington?”

Percival bows his head and pulls the sheet back enough that the dead woman’s face can be seen. Credence recognises her instantly, although the picture being shown on the news isn’t the most flattering. Drunk in an angel costume on Halloween is probably _not_ how Miss Dartington wanted to be remembered.

“Dying has made her into quite the celebrity,” Percival says. It’s clear from his tone that he doesn’t like the sensationalism. “But if it helps us get this guy, I suppose it’s a good thing.”

“Maybe I can do better than the news,” Credence says.

So far, his and Percival’s arrangement has been a success. After Credence helped ensure the corpse-robbing co-owner of the funeral home was apprehended for hitting his business partner with his car, he’s since helped Percival put three other killers behind bars.

Percival has prevented him from doing any more than just interviewing deceased murder victims out of concern for his safety, but Credence is fine with not being part of the actual detective work. He has enough work at _The Pie Hole_ and he’s not interested in the drama of making arrests or chasing suspects. He’s certainly not interested in the monotony of sifting through evidence or taking witness statements.

The small part he plays is satisfying to him, overall, despite being emotionally taxing. Percival always tells him the outcome of the cases he helps with and that’s rewarding enough to turn any negativity into something positive. The fact is: the dead have to stay dead. There’s nothing Credence can do about that, unless he wants other deaths on his conscience. What he _can_ do though is help to get justice for the murder victims and closure for their families. He’s even cleared the names of the wrongly-accused on a few occasions now.

Of course, it helps that he’s had Percival to lean on throughout. Ever since that first night, he’s brought flowers to Credence’s apartment after every morgue visit to express his gratitude and to check in with him.

Credence appreciates it more than he realises, probably. He’s killed a _lot_ of fruit in order to keep all the flowers alive, perfectly happy to condemn a few punnets of much-hated strawberries to death if it means Percival’s beautiful gifts to him live on to serve as a reminder that Percival bought them for him in the first place.

Percival never takes him up on the invitation Credence always extends to him though. He never answers ‘do you want to come in?’ with the ‘yes’ that Credence longs for, claiming instead that he doesn’t want to take up any of Credence’s time, he doesn’t want to impose... but Credence recognises the rejection for what it is.

He just struggles to understand it. So many of Percival’s actions imply that he likes Credence back— _wants_ him, even, in that way—and yet he refuses to do anything about it and when Credence tries, all he gets is turned down. It’s mystifying. And disheartening in the extreme.

“I hope you can help,” Percival says, drawing Credence out of his sad little reverie. “I’m beginning to feel the pressure on this one, what with the media circus. I don’t want any more cameras to be shoved in my face, asking how I’m getting on with the investigation. Badly, is the answer. Some detective I am.”

There’s nothing Percival hates more than having to ask for Credence’s help on his cases. Most of it is him not wanting to have to put Credence through any distress, he knows that, but he also knows some of it is definitely wounded pride.

“Your suspicion was right the last four times,” Credence reminds him gently. “I only helped by getting the victims to confirm what you already knew. You’re a great detective, Percival. Please don’t sell yourself short.”

Percival smiles at him in response to that, mouth just slightly crooked. The skin around his eyes crinkles. “What have I done to deserve you?” he asks.

 _Everything,_ Credence thinks.

Before Credence can attempt to stammer out an answer that doesn’t give away all of his tightly-held feelings, Percival continues speaking. “I _wish_ I had a suspicion here,” he says. “That’s the problem: no suspects, no motive, no evidence. I really do have absolutely nothing on this case. That’s why I asked you to come, I hope you don’t mind.”

“You know I don’t,” Credence tells him firmly. “So let’s see what she can tell us and how we can help her.”

“Decisive. I like it.”

Percival lifts his left arm and his watch with it. After fetching a fresh sheet to wrap around the dead woman’s shoulders when she inevitably sits up, Credence gives him a nod to start timing.

Felicity Dartington’s eyes, when they open wide the instant Credence touches the sallow skin of her left cheek, are as vibrantly blue as Credence remembers them being in the picture from the news. Any contact lenses would surely have been removed after her death, so the striking colour of her eyes can only be natural. Her blonde hair meanwhile isn't, judging by the dark roots.

She jerks bolt upright with a gasp like everyone does and Credence hurriedly drapes the sheet around her for modesty’s sake when the one covering her falls down.

“Am I dead?” she asks, sounding more annoyed than upset. “I had the strangest dream I was being strangled to death with a plastic sack.”

“I’m afraid you… _were_ strangled to death with a plastic sack,” Credence says, wringing his hands. “I’m really sorry.”

“Damn.” Felicity blows out a long breath. “This is the last time I— well, I suppose it really _is_ the last time I’ll get involved in smuggling. I knew that was a bad idea.”

Credence and Percival exchange a glance that communicates the one thought they must be sharing:

_Motive._

“You’re a smuggler?” Percival asks, breaking with his usual tradition of letting Credence do the questioning while he looks after the time. He still keeps his eyes on the watch though, brow creased with concentration.

Felicity shrugs and the the sheet around her shoulders rises and falls with the movement. “Yeah, kinda.”

“Drugs?” Percival asks.

“No!” Felicity replies, seemingly offended by the accusation. Then her mouth twists. “No, _monkeys._ Well, that’s what me and my boss asked that girl to pick up on this Tahitian cruise for us. Two solid gold statues, encased in plaster to disguise what they are. Worth a fortune.”

Credence looks to Percival, but he’s nodding at his left wrist, raised eyebrows giving away burgeoning alarm. “Thirty seconds.”

“So did you see who killed you?” Credence asks her in a rush.

“No,” Felicity answers, frowning. “I came home, shut the door and then _wham!_ Strangled with a plastic sack. I didn’t have the monkeys at my place though.”

Credence feels his shoulders sag with disappointment. He had been so hopeful that she might have seen her murderer.

“Twenty seconds,” Percival says. His voice is growing tight.

Felicity’s eyes flick over to Percival. “Are you counting down to something, handsome?”

“I can only bring you back for a minute,” Credence explains quickly, drawing her attention back to him. “So where are the monkeys?”

“Elaine has them, my boss. But she’s on holiday herself right now.”

“Credence—”

“Thank you,” Credence says, and then he steps in close and taps Felicity between the eyebrows. He catches the back of her head in his other hand when it falls backwards, lowering her gently down onto the autopsy table again.

Percival lets his taut left arm drop now he no longer needs to count the minute. He sighs and runs his right hand up his forehead and back through his hair. The gesture—one he often makes when he’s stressed or wants to hide the strength of his feelings on something—is intensely familiar by now to Credence. It makes his stomach clench with how much he aches to comfort him, to be comforted by him in return. He gets just as anxious when the sixty seconds are mounting up and the nearest person to him is the _last_ person whose life he would ever want to accidentally trade for anyone else’s.

“Well,” Percival says at length, “that explains why the owner of the travel boutique has been offering a fifty thousand dollar reward for someone to find this killer while she’s out of the country. She probably thinks she’ll be next when she comes back. Funnily enough, I was meaning to go and speak to her tomorrow morning after her flight gets in.”

“Will you go alone like you usually do or will you tell someone about this?”

Percival grimaces. “I'm just paranoid about anything leading back to you. I know you don't approve of my lone wolf antics though.”

Percival is right; Credence doesn’t approve, but that disapproval only exists because he worries about Percival. He does understand that Percival following up these leads on his own—sometimes even out of work hours when he’s had to—is necessary, because telling anyone about the new information would only mean questions about how he came by it.

There’s no point reminding Percival that he could have _fallen off a roof_ chasing a suspect on the day he discovered Credence’s secret, even though it’s a prime example of an occasion where he was out risking himself without any backup. He didn’t have the excuse then that he does now. Percival’s (slightly conceited) recklessness is not a new thing for him and it’s not all linked back to Credence.

That recklessness is easily his biggest flaw, to Credence’s mind. But at the same time, Percival’s selfless, single-minded pursuit of justice is one of the things Credence loves best about him.

So he doesn’t chastise him for it. What he ends up blurting out is, “I like that you want to protect me.”

The words hang in the air between them for a moment and Credence mentally slaps himself for saying them.

Percival doesn’t look like he found the statement foolish or presumptuous though. “That’s all I want to do,” he says quietly. Earnestly.

Credence smiles at him in thanks and Percival smiles back.

“Come on,” he says, “let’s not spend another second longer than we have to in here.”

And with that said, he comes over to put his hand on Credence’s lower back to steer him out of the autopsy room like he always does.

Abernathy looks rather nauseated when they pass through his office, scowling half-heartedly at Credence. It probably _is_ all just envy, but Credence is sure the new candy bar wrapper he spies on the coroner’s desk must have played a part in making him look so green.

 

* * *

 

Credence’s apartment is clean and tidy when Percival arrives later that evening. No piles of dishes to wash, no take-out containers to throw away, no clothes to hang up. He’s kept it that way for months now since Percival’s first unannounced visit, wanting the place spotless so that he could, at any given moment, invite Percival in without shame.

He _was_ in the habit of putting all of his revived flowers out of sight as well after morgue trips—just in case—but he hasn’t bothered to move the vases into his bedroom tonight. Percival won’t see them. There’s nothing that could make him want to come in this time when he’s declined the offer on four previous separate occasions.

Credence feels a droplet of water running down his neck when he takes the chain off his door and twists the lock. He’s nervous as usual, but it’s not sweat; Percival has come back a little earlier than usual after dropping him off and his hair is still damp from the shower he just took.

At least he had time to get dressed, he thinks, flushing at the idea of having to answer the door with only a towel around his hips. His imagination trips over itself in its eagerness to bombard him with thoughts of what could happen if Percival _did_ see him almost naked like that.

Stomach flipping, he pictures dark eyes running languorously, _hungrily_ down over his bare chest, thinks of Percival appraising him while saying nothing at all before suddenly taking Credence in his arms and kissing him then and there, completely unable to restrain himself. He’s a passionate man, Percival Graves. Even if he tries to hide that under those respectable suits of his. Of course he’d sweep Credence up in the type of kiss that belongs on the silver screen.

Credence shakes his head, shutting his eyes tightly and clenching his fists to ground himself again. It’s a nice fantasy, but it will never happen.

Feeling demoralised by a similar thought after his shower earlier, he threw on his comfortable pyjamas instead of dressing up like he did on the other nights before this one when he was expecting Percival. It didn’t make any difference, so why bother?

Percival won’t instigate anything and he _certainly_ won’t. He has no clue where he found the boldness to even kiss Percival’s cheek that first time he came around. He hasn’t done it since.

When he opens the door, the smile he curls his mouth into feels brittle.

Percival stands in the hallway with one hand in the pocket of his suit trousers, the other holding an almost comically large bunch of red roses. That choice makes Credence’s breath catch in his dry throat. Red roses still only symbolise romantic intentions, don’t they? He hasn’t missed a memo that says they double up for friendship, has he?

“Hey,” Credence says faintly, trying to swallow down the hope rising within him. They’re just flowers.

“Hi,” Percival says. He sounds out of breath, as if he rushed up the stairs or something. “I thought if I didn’t come over so late this time then maybe I could finally take you up on that offer to come in for coffee but—” He waves a hand up and down to gesture at Credence, “—I can see you’re settled in for the night, so I won’t keep you.”

“No!” Credence shouts the word, too loud for the distance he and Percival are standing at, and then winces. Hopefully the Goldstein sisters didn’t hear him. If he’s not careful, the two of them will come out to watch the drama of his non-existent love-life unfolding and he can’t think of many things that would be worse than that.

Percival leaving after what he just said would be top of the list though.

He looks taken aback by the vehemence of Credence’s protest and now stands watching him, eyebrows raised, waiting for Credence to go on.

“No,” Credence repeats, at a far more appropriate volume. “Please, don’t go. You should come in. I want you to.”

The growing smile on Percival’s face at that is like the dawning of the sun. It distracts Credence utterly for a good few moments before a leaden weight drops in his stomach and he realises a problem with this plan.

His flowers. Flowers that should be long dead and decaying by now, sitting very much _alive_ in vases with no water in them. Scattered around his living space like blinking neon signs, ready to give away a clue no detective could miss as to how he feels about Percival.

“I just… I just have to put some things away first.”

Percival laughs and, true to form, Credence shivers just hearing it. “You should see my place. Trust me, I’m fine with a bit of mess.”

“It’s a lot of mess,” Credence says desperately. “It’s probably a health hazard. You’ll arrest me for it.”

Percival laughs again and his eyes all but _twinkle_ with amusement. He looks so unfairly handsome when he’s happy that Credence really, really wants to just let him in already, neon signs be damned. Maybe it would be good if the flowers told him what Credence can’t seem to.

“That’s funny,” Percival says, “because Tina tells me you’ve been spring cleaning for weeks now.”

 _Tina_. Credence is going to cheerfully murder her tomorrow morning before she leaves for work. What else has she been saying about him to Percival without him knowing? He thought the only Goldstein he had to worry about gossiping with Percival behind his back was Queenie. Turns out he’s got two of them to have stern words with now about this sort of thing.

“Tina doesn’t know my cleaning schedule.”

Now _that_ sounds ridiculous, even to his own ears. He realises he’s got no leg to stand on here, not with Percival smirking at him like he’s won something and tilting his head to look past Credence and into his apartment.

The smirk fades suddenly though and Percival’s left hand rhythmically clenches and unclenches a few times at his side. “Unless,” he says and then trails off. “Unless you don’t want me to come in. Which is fine, I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“No,” Credence says at once, careful not to shout it this time. “No, I do. I just…” There’s nothing for it. He holds open the door and steps back so Percival can enter. “I can explain,” he says weakly.

Percival frowns at him as he walks through the door, passing the bouquet of roses over to Credence before crouching down to take his shoes off in a display of typically impeccable manners. It puts his head rather disconcertingly at crotch-level with Credence, who darts out of the way, heart hammering as he clutches the cellophane-wrapped rose stems like a lifeline. His clammy hands slip over the plastic.

“Explain what?” Percival asks when he’s on his feet again.

Credence opens his mouth to answer, but then he makes the error of glancing down and loses all ability to articulate speech.

Percival is wearing black and yellow striped knitted socks. Their quality is just ropey enough to give off a distinctly home-made vibe and, all in all, seeing what sort of socks Percival Graves wears is the most surreal experience of Credence’s life. And he can bring the dead back to life.

Percival is in his apartment and Credence is fixating on his socks. The whole situation seems dream-like in how improbable and absurd it is. Did he pass out on his bed after his shower?

“Oh,” Percival says, following the line of Credence’s gaze and looking down at himself. “I never told you, did I? I knit. For stress relief. I’ve, um, I’ve actually been working on a scarf for you for ages now. I’m hoping to actually have it done by the winter.”

He knits. And he’s apparently been _working on a scarf for Credence._

_For ages now._

Credence’s head spins with this new information. Seemingly not noticing the minor crisis that Credence is having right in front of him, Percival grimaces and says, “And now I’ve just given the surprise away.”

He must feel the same. He _must_ do.

He brought red roses and he wanted to come in tonight and he’s _knitting him a scarf._

Credence reaches out to take Percival’s hand. The sudden touch clearly startles Percival, but he doesn’t take his hand back or question what exactly Credence thinks he’s doing. He just sucks in a sharp breath and meets Credence’s eyes with a question in his own.

“I can explain,” Credence says again, and then he tugs him into his main living area.

The first colourful bouquet of gerbera daisies, germini, agapanthus, and sunflowers that Percival bought him sits in the middle of his tiny coffee table in front of his couch. Percival only chose bouquets with one single type of flower in them after the first one. The pure white and deep scarlet carnations that he brought last time are in a vase at one end of the breakfast bar, while the yellow tulips from the time before that are at the other end. Finally, the red amaryllis flowers Percival presented him with on his second visit adorn the windowsill in the sitting room.

Percival stops in his tracks when he sees them, turning his head from one vase to the next, mouth open. His hand in Credence’s goes loose.

To distract himself from the roiling in his stomach, Credence lets go of him and heads across the room into his kitchen. He crouches down out of Percival’s sight behind the breakfast bar, ostensibly to dig through one of the cupboards under his sink for another vase, mainly to take some deep breaths and press his forehead against a cupboard door while mouthing ‘what am I doing?’ to himself.

He already knows he doesn’t have an unoccupied vase left to look for.

“How are they still—” he hears Percival’s voice ask. “Did you—”

Credence can’t help smiling at hearing him so lost for words, and he stands up, resting the bunch of roses carefully on the empty draining board beside the sink. In answer to Percival’s question, he raises his right hand and gives the fingers a small wiggle.

Percival huffs a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. He stares at the carnations nearest to him while Credence watches. “You must have had to let a lot of other flowers die to do it,” Percival says without looking at him.

“Just some strawberries.”

Percival turns his head away from the carnations then to meet Credence’s eyes. He walks over to Credence slowly, the heels of his socked feet making muffled thuds against the floor.

“Why?” he asks when he’s at arm’s length and _still_ getting closer. His eyes bore into Credence’s as if searching for something.

Credence wants him to find it. “Isn’t it obvious by now?” he asks, voice cracking on the last word. “Do I really have to explain?”

“No,” Percival says. “No, you don’t.”

His hands take a gentle hold of the points of Credence’s elbows and he draws Credence into him, close enough that he can feel the heat of Percival’s body through all the layers of clothing that separate them. He could count Percival’s eyelashes if he wanted to at this distance. They flutter delicately as his gaze moves to Credence’s lips. He tilts his head up a little— _up,_ Credence always forgets he’s the taller one—and their noses brush.

Credence trembles. His lips part so he can wet them with his tongue.

“Per—”

His attempt to say Percival’s name is lost in the abrupt, hot press of Percival’s mouth against his and Credence feels himself go completely rigid. It’s not the best reaction to have to something he’s craved for so long and he hates his own body for implying that this could ever be unwanted. The need to kiss back is urgent, _desperate_ , but he can’t seem to move or release the surprised breath he just drew in through his nose.

Percival’s hands let go of his elbows to cup his face then, thumbs stroking his cheekbones soothingly as his lips move over Credence’s. The overwhelming tenderness of it all makes Credence let out an audible sigh that borders on a moan, shuddering. The air and the tension in his body leave together in that exhalation and his eyes flutter closed. Off-balance, he clutches at Percival for stability, fingers grasping the front of his shirt. He feels so light-headed that he’s afraid he might fall.

As if reading his mind, Percival sets his hands on Credence’s back to hold him, one in the middle, the other lower down. His little finger rests against the waistband of Credence’s pyjama bottoms and, when he presses Credence even tighter against himself, it slips underneath. Credence jolts at the sensation of Percival’s skin touching his, especially there at the base of his spine, in such an intimate place where no one has ever touched him before. His mouth opens in a gasp and Percival’s tongue sweeps forward to meet his.

He was right about it being a kiss for the silver screen. It’s every bit as passionate and consuming as he knew Percival would make it, but he’s still as gentle and caring as always. It’s everything Credence could have hoped for from his first kiss. It’s perfect.

Or, it is until Percival pulls back and ends it.

“No,” Credence says breathlessly, “I want to—”

“I know,” Percival says. “ _Christ,_ I know, Credence.”

His voice comes out as rough as the skin on the pad of the thumb that he runs over Credence’s tingling lips until he parts them. Gaze fixed there, his own mouth opens as if to mirror Credence. He’s panting, flushed, and a few strands of his hair have come loose at the sides to fall over his brow.

He’s the most beautiful thing Credence has ever seen.

Credence kisses _him_ this time, unable to do anything else. His fingers curl even tighter in the fabric of Percival’s shirt—a plea for him not to pull away again.

But he does. His hands gently prise Credence’s fingers free and then they land on his shoulders and push to keep a few necessary inches of distance between them.

“Woah there,” he says with a soft laugh. “Let’s just slow down a bit, shall we? I didn’t mean to get so carried away.”

“Why not?”

Credence is more than happy to be carried away. He’d very much like it if Percival carried him away to his bedroom right this instant, in fact.

“I wanted to take this slow,” Percival says. “I knew I shouldn’t have said I’d come in tonight, but I still found myself doing it anyway. I wanted to every single time you asked before, but I was waiting for you to ask me at a time when we hadn’t just been to the _morgue_ together. I didn’t want it to be… reactionary.”

“It isn’t,” Credence says, “I don’t— I’m not doing this because I’m _upset_ or something.”

“I know,” Percival answers quickly, stroking an apologetic hand over his cheek before cradling it in his palm. “I just don’t want to rush things. I want to take you out on a date and I want to walk you home and kiss you on the doorstep and then I want to go home and not be able to sleep because I’m still thinking about that kiss.”

Credence shivers, pressing his cheek into Percival’s hand. The idea of Percival ever passing a sleepless night because he couldn’t stop thinking about him makes his stomach ache with longing for it and all it implies. His blood feels molten-hot and too thin as it floods through him without any resistance until he's overly warm from head to foot.

“I want that too,” he says.

“It’s what I should do now,” Percival says. “Go home, I mean.”

Credence nods, unable to speak with his throat clogged by requests for Percival to do the opposite, to stay the night, in spite of what they’ve just said.

Percival doesn’t make any moves to leave. His thumb sweeps across the skin beneath Credence’s eye. “I want to kiss you goodnight,” he says. “But I’m worried I won’t be able to stop.”

It’s a dizzying thought: the most controlled person Credence knows, worried he won’t be able to control himself and all because of _him_. Credence can hardly believe the turn this night has taken. Inspiration strikes then and he reaches out for Percival’s left arm, seeking his watch. When he presses the button and quiet ticking fills the silence between them, Percival smiles.

“A minute?” he asks.

“I’m sure you can judge it without looking by now,” Credence says, surprising himself with his audacity. “Make it count.”

Percival pulls him close by the hips. “These damn pyjamas,” he murmurs. “God, you drive me crazy.”

Before Credence can give that too much thought and blush over it, Percival is kissing him again. He keeps it shallow at first, teasing. The whole minute must have passed already by the time he stops lightly brushing his mouth against Credence’s and deepens the kiss. His tongue traces over the seam of Credence’s lips and Credence opens for him at once, draping his arms around Percival’s neck to hold onto him.

They kiss like that for an age. Credence can’t even _hear_ the ticking of the watch anymore, too caught up in the slick noises of their mouths meeting and separating and meeting again, in his own harsh breaths and the low sounds Percival makes in his throat when Credence catches his lower lip between his own. If all that wasn’t distracting enough, Percival has been stroking his thumbs across Credence’s hipbones repeatedly the whole time, exposed as they are by the way his shirt has ridden up and by Percival pushing the waistband of his worn pyjama bottoms down a bit earlier.

Slow, he reminds himself through the fog in his brain. They’re supposed to be taking it _slow_.

“Percival,” he pants, breaking their mouths apart even as Percival stubbornly tries to bring them together again. “ _Percival_.”

That firmer call of his name gets him to stop chasing Credence’s lips. He pulls back, eyes glassy and mouth shining, looking at Credence like he’s never seen anything he wants more in his life. It’s not helpful.

“Sorry,” Percival says hoarsely.

“Don’t be.”

Credence smiles and reaches up to set each rogue, dangling strand of his dark hair back in with the rest. Inhibitions lowered, he combs his hand through Percival’s hair when he’s done, messing it up again. He’s immensely pleased with the way Percival shuts his eyes and tips his head up into Credence’s hand like he’s preening under the attention. If Percival were a cat, Credence just knows he’d be purring.

When Credence takes his hand back, Percival’s eyes open and his head turns towards the front door. “I should be going,” he says ruefully. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning to let you know how I get on at the travel boutique.”

Credence nods. “And you’ll come into _The Pie Hole_ at lunch?”

“Only if you have a slice of key lime pie waiting for me.”

That makes Credence laugh, self-aware enough to know he’ll be baking that pie first thing tomorrow and fretting over it being the best one he’s ever done.

“Should I be worried that you only want me for my pie-making abilities?” he asks. He’s actually _flirting_ with Percival now _._ It’s probably ironic that it only took a few kisses to get him to finally do it.

Percival grins, but his face soon softens and his smile turns sweet. “For a lot more than that,” he says. He extends a hand and raises one eyebrow. “Now, I’ve forgotten where I left my shoes. Perhaps you’ll lead me back to them?”

Credence rolls his eyes at how ridiculous he is, but he can’t pretend he isn’t happy to knot their fingers together and hold Percival’s hand as they walk down the short hallway towards his front door.

“Ah yes, here they are.”

Credence bites his lip to keep from laughing at Percival’s socks as he bends down and slips his shoes on over them. The black and yellow stripes make him think of his personal favourite pair of all of Percival's matching collar pins and cuff-links. He's wearing them tonight and the golden bees adorning his wrists keep catching the light, flashing with his movements as he ties his shoelaces.

It’s a struggle not to kiss him again when Credence opens the door to let him out, but he restrains himself. There’ll be time tomorrow for kissing, he thinks, almost giddy with delight. And, at some point, Percival is going to take him on his first ever date. Or maybe _he’ll_ ask Percival out and surprise him. The possibilities are endless and Credence can’t believe his luck.

After a lifetime of feeling like a freak, he’s never felt more… _normal_.

If he didn’t love Percival more than he can stand already, he’d have fallen in love with him for giving him that.

“Goodnight, Credence,” Percival says.

He’s on the other side of the threshold now where Credence is used to him being. Like he did the first night he came around, he reaches out to push one of Credence’s still-damp curls back behind his ear for him. Credence doesn’t flinch this time, just basks in the affectionate touch, heart full.

Keen to play his part too, he holds onto the edge of his door with one hand, leans forward, and presses his mouth to Percival’s cheek. He lingers like he didn’t dare to before, closing his eyes briefly.

“Goodnight, Percival.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments and feedback, I really appreciate it <3


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